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Vegas with family, Friday night football and a seven-year-old cheerleader, a farm festival, another bleacher for a tiny cheerleader, daughter flying home, and a trip to Texas—-all on top of the most intense work season in a while. This fall feels less like a whirlwind and more like a hurricane. Here's how I'm learning to S.T.A.Y. in the middle of it, and why I wouldn't change one windy part.

A wagon ride at Lynd Fruit Farm with my kids and grandkids took me back to my grandparents' farm. For a moment I was both the grandchild and the Gramma, and I found myself thinking about what it means to move forward without treating the past as a mistake or a bad thing.

Some weeks hold everything

A week that held grief, pride, comfort, laughter, and a relationship none of us can explain the loss of. Anchoring doesn't mean feeling one clean thing.

You’ve probably seen the post by now. The one going around about the kind of grandmother a woman intends to be someday. Dinner on the table after a hard day. Baths and bedtime covered. Bring those babies over and go get some rest. No, you don’t have to explain yourself. My feed has been filled with it this past couple of weeks. Women I love shared it, and I understood exactly why. It names something many of us carry-- I don’t want my children to ever feel alone. I read it twi

The Balcony Still Faces the Same Way The view I woke up to. I stayed at my parents' house last weekend. I woke early, the way I always do in that house — some old rhythm it still keeps in me, no matter how many years I've been gone. I stood at the sliding doors in my bare feet and pajamas and watched the sun come up over the balcony, and I took a picture of it. I'm not entirely sure who I took it for. That balcony is one of the places younger me became a writer, long be

The house hasn't changed. The rail is the same rail. The light comes up over the same trees. I'm the one who changed. Some places aren't scenery — they're fixed points, and standing in one again shows you exactly how far the water has carried you.

For months there were two laptops at our kitchen table. His book came out this week. Mine’s out there too. What I’ll keep isn’t either book — it’s the two of us at that table, each convinced the other one’s work was worth the early alarm.

Two weeks ago, I was at a county fair with my grandbabies. This week, I was at a very different kind of fair in Wisconsin—thinking about AI, healthcare and how quickly “eventually” can become “November.” Somewhere along the midway, I found myself coming back to one question: What if?

Some people have known us for fifty years. Others arrived exactly when we needed them. Time isn’t what makes someone your person. It’s being seen — without the résumé, the explanation, or the highlight reel. Sunday on Buckeye Lake reminded me what a gift it is to be with the people who already know your voice.

Almost every August, I find my way back to the Gallia County Jr. Fair. The sheep barn, the midway, the show ring--they've changed a little over the years. So have I. But some experiences have a way of reminding us exactly who we are and where we are from.

Some places change your itinerary. Alaska changes what I carried home. A reflection on slowing down, paying attention, and bringing wonder back into everyday life.

Sometimes the hardest part of a journey isn't packing the suitcase. It's carrying everything you can't leave behind.

I know that ceiling, I've stared at it too. It happened fast, didn't it? The yes was out before you checked your calendar — before you checked your heart. And at 10:40 that night, staring at the ceiling, you felt the weight of it.